Michelangelos Shoulder | Page 6

Tucker slowed down. "Well, I had to do something. I made the horse."
"Mesquite."
"Yep."
"Why didn't you give it to her?"
"It's a long story, I guess. Took me a while to make it. Your mom took a fancy to Jack. What with one thing and another, I went in the Navy. When I got out, I guess you was three years old already."
"Oh, Tucker."
"How's she doing? She still in Florida where they went?"
"St. Augustine. She's down to one lung. She lives in one of those--assisted living places, they call them. She has her own space, but there's help if need be. She gets around on a walker." Margery paused.
"Tucker, why do we cling so to life?"
"Guess we ain't done yet."
Margery looked at him for a long moment, and they exchanged what could be exchanged in small smiles. Tucker went inside the house and returned with a heavy cardboard box. "While I'm at it," he said and began taking out carvings and putting them on the table--more horses, deer, squirrels, birds of all kinds, a woodchuck. Charlie held up a fox and looked at it from different angles. Its tail was full, straight out behind him, level with his back. His ears were sharply pointed, his head tilted slightly, all senses alert. Charlie was sure it was a he; the fox was elegant and challenging, superior.
"Damn near alive," Charlie said. "You could make money with these."
Tucker shook his head negatively. "Only do one a year. In the winter, not much going on." He looked into the back yard. "Try to get it done on February 15th."
"Mother's birthday."
"We used to talk about them a lot--animals and birds. Walk in the woods, talk."
"Tucker, does she know about these?"
"Nope."
"But she should see them!"
"She'd like them, you think?"
"Of course she would. They're beautiful."
"I'm not much for writing,"
"I could mail them to her if you'd like." He looked at the carvings, rubbed his chin, and inclined his head. A why not expression crossed his face. He pulled a twenty dollar bill from a scarred black wallet. "Tucker, for heavens sake!" He insisted that she take it.
"Ask her, if she don't mind--I might take a ride down, say hello. Probably get a train down there." He looked at Charlie.
"Amtrak," Charlie said. "Or you could fly."
"I like trains."
They finished lunch and put the box of carvings on the back seat of the car. "I'll wrap tissue paper around them so they don't get banged up. I'll mail them tomorrow," Margery said. "Tucker, thank you so much for lunch. It was so good to see you."
"I thought I'd be seeing you again one of these days," Tucker said.
"We'll keep in touch," Margery said.
"Take care of yourself," Charlie said. "You want a ride back?"
"I'll walk."
They drove away slowly as Tucker and Sally watched. Tucker lifted one hand in farewell.
"You just never know, do you?" Charlie said.
"Tucker Smollett," Margery said. "Good old Tucker."
Halfway back to Portland, Charlie looked over at Margery and asked about her husband. "He cared for me," she said. "He just cared more for someone else."
"Damn shame," Charlie said. Margery brushed the fingers of one hand through the back of her hair. Charlie thought she was going to say more, but she didn't. At the ferry, he helped her with the box and said goodbye.
The next morning was again bright and sunny. Charlie returned to the bench near the ferry and sat, savoring his coffee, croissant, and the salty air. His brother Orson came to mind. Orson was a pain in the ass, but he had a point--sometimes you have to make a move.
Two men wearing similar clothes--pressed jeans, T-shirts, white running shoes, and sunglasses--walked up and took benches closer to the water. One was older, softer, beginning to put on weight. He sat with his elbows on his knees, looking across the harbor. The other, fitter one, stretched full length on his bench, arms out flat behind his head, and stared into the sky. Neither looked happy. They remained unmoving, as though they were waiting for a delivery.
That is not the way, Charlie thought. He stood, dropped the empty bag and cup into a trash can, and walked in the direction of the unknown furled inside him.

Coming To
"I made a box. It was about so big." The speaker spread his hands on the counter. "By about so wide." He indicated the other dimension, one palm by his stomach, the other out by a napkin holder.
The outer hand rose over a plate of eggs. "About so high."
A smaller man at the next stool nodded, lifting his coffee mug. "About so high."
About so high, Will repeated to himself.
"Made it for my daughter."
"For your daughter."
Made it for his daughter. Will joined the chorus. He couldn't see the box, but he could hear it.
"Took me some shiplap--nice and dry. Made her tight. No